He sounds like an angel
at night.
Each snore means
he's saving a child
in some foreign state.
Each breath he gives
loudly so another can
receive it.
He acts like the moon,
showing an eye like a
yellow dagger
on nights when clouds
are fidgety in the sky.
Then he shines flouride white
at full capacity,
fortifying even
cratered flaws
with smiling arches.
When I see him
after a while,
it's like going
to church once a week.
Feeling the sermon
lift me from tile
to alter to cross,
in a steady up-heaving
of spirit or sprite.
He is in my bones
those tendered moments.
I allow them
to carry me in His absence.
When he cries
he is the ashes
in a fireplace
something passionate
climbing to it's highest
peak before disbaring
into the crate.
Longing for the warmth
he exalts from
bright raptures that a dead log
can no longer provide.
When he laughs
he is the supreme judge
and I am on the stand
for my ineptitude
of humor.
I pose and pretend
to be his jester
but I know
that it is an inner justice
that keeps him laughing
down Life's Lane.
He has an innocent peace
that lets this Judge
sleep while I lay awake
a criminal counting
her days in a dim cell.
He can laugh for me
letting my drama roll
off him, sweat over
wet retardant skin.
He looks like an angel in the morning,
crying silent tears onto me
praying I will stay with him
just one more day.
If he only knew I prayed the same.
Honorable mention
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